Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Vol. 1 by George Gilfillan

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The first of these is the only versifier that can be assigned to Englandin the reign of Henry IV. His name was John Walton, though he wasgenerally known as _Johannes Capellanus_ or 'John the Chaplain.' He wascanon of Oseney, and died sub-dean of York. He, in the year 1410,translated Boethius' famous treatise, 'De Consolatione Philosophiae,'into English verse. He is not known to have written anything original.--Thomas Occleve appeared in the reign of Henry V., about 1420. LikeChaucer and Gower, he was a student of municipal law, having attendedChester's Inn, which stood on the site of the present Somerset House;but although he trod in the footsteps of his celebrated predecessors, itwas with far feebler powers. His original pieces are contemptible, bothin subject and in execution. His best production is a translation of'Egidius De Regimine Principum.' Warton, alluding to the period at whichthese writers appeared, has the following oft-quoted observations:--'I consider Chaucer as a genial day in an English spring. A brilliantsun enlivens the face of nature with an unusual lustre; the suddenappearance of cloudless skies, and the unexpected warmth of a tepidatmosphere, after the gloom and the inclemencies of a tedious winter,fill our hearts with the visionary prospect of a speedy summer, and wefondly anticipate a long continuance of gentle gales and vernal serenity.But winter returns with redoubled horrors; the clouds condense moreformidably than before, and those tender buds and early blossoms whichwere called forth by the transient gleam of a temporary sunshine, arenipped by frosts and torn by tempests.' These sentences are, after all,rather pompous, and express, in the most verbose style of the _Rambler_,the simple fact, that after Chaucer's death the ground lay fallow, andthat for a while in England (in Scotland it was otherwise) there werefew poets, and little poetry.

JOHN LYDGATE.

This copious and versatile writer flourished in the reign of Henry VI.Warton affirms that he reached his highest point of eminence in 1430,although some of his poems had appeared before. He was a monk of theBenedictine Abbey at Bury, in Suffolk. He received his education atOxford; and when it was finished, he travelled through France and Italy,mastering the languages and literature of both countries, and studyingtheir poets, particularly Dante, Boccaccio, and Alain Chartier. When hereturned, he opened a school in his monastery for teaching the sons ofthe nobility composition and the art of versification. His acquirementswere, for the age, universal. He was a poet, a rhetorician, an astronomer,a mathematician, a public disputant, and a theologian. He was born in1370, ordained sub-deacon in 1389, deacon in 1393, and priest in 1397.The time of his death is uncertain. His great patron was Humphrey, Dukeof Gloucester, to whom he complains sometimes of necessitous circumstances,which were, perhaps, produced by indulgence, since he confesses himself tobe 'a lover of wine.'

The great merit of Lydgate is his versatility. This Warton has happilyexpressed in a few sentences, which we shall quote:--

'He moves with equal ease in every form of composition. His hymns andhis ballads have the same degree of merit; and whether his subject bethe life of a hermit or a hero, of Saint Austin or Guy, Earl of Warwick,ludicrous or legendary, religious or romantic, a history or an allegory,he writes with facility. His transitions were rapid, from works of themost serious and laborious kind, to sallies of levity and pieces ofpopular entertainment. His muse was of universal access; and he was notonly the poet of his monastery, but of the world in general. If adisguising was intended by the Company of Goldsmiths, a mask before HisMajesty at Eltham, a May game for the sheriffs and aldermen of London,a mumming before the Lord Mayor, a procession of pageants, from the"Creation," for the Festival of Corpus Christi, or a carol for thecoronation, Lydgate was consulted, and gave the poetry.'

Lydgate is, so far as we know, the first British bard who wrote forhire. At the request of Whethamstede, the Abbot of St Alban's, hetranslated a 'Life of St Alban' from Latin into English rhymes, andreceived for the whole work one hundred shillings. His principal poems,all founded on the works of other authors, are the 'Fall of Princes,'the 'Siege of Thebes,' and the 'Destruction of Troy.' They are writtenin a diffuse and verbose style, but are generally clear in sense, andoften very luxuriant in description. 'The London Lyckpenny' is afugitive poem, in which the author describes himself coming up to townin search of legal redress for a wrong, and gives some curiousparticulars of the condition of that city in the early part of thefifteenth century.

CANACE, CONDEMNED TO DEATH BY HER FATHER AEOLUS, SENDSTO HER GUILTY BROTHER MACAREUS THE LAST TESTIMONY OFHER UNHAPPY PASSION.

Out of her swoon� when she did abraid,[1]Knowing no mean but death in her distr�ss,To her broth�r full piteously she said,'Cause of my sorrow, root of my heaviness,That whilom were the source of my gladness,When both our joys by will were so disposed,Under one key our hearts to be enclosed.--

* * * * *

This is mine end, I may it not astart;[2]O brother mine, there is no more to say;Lowly beseeching with mine whol� heartFor to remember specially, I pray,If it befall my little son to dey[3]That thou mayst after some mind on us have,Suffer us both be buried in one grave.I hold him strictly 'tween my arm�s twain,Thou and Nat�r� laid on me this charge;He, guiltless, must� with me suffer pain,And, since thou art at freedom and at large,Let kindness our� love not so discharge,But have a mind, wherever that thou be,Once on a day upon my child and me.On thee and me dependeth the tresp�ceTouching our guilt and our great offence,But, welaway! most �ngelic of faceOur child�, young in his pure innocence,Shall against right suffer death's violence,Tender of limbs, God wot, full guilt�lessThe goodly fair, that lieth here speechl�ss.

A mouth he has, but word�s hath he none;Cannot complain, alas! for none outr�ge:Nor grutcheth[4] not, but lies here all aloneStill as a lamb, most meek of his vis�ge.What heart of steel could do to him dam�ge,Or suffer him die, beholding the mann�reAnd look benign of his twain even clear.'--

* * * * *

Writing her letter, awhapped[5] all in drede,In her right hand her pen began to quake,And a sharp sword to make her heart� bleed,In her left hand her father hath her take,And most her sorrow was for her child�'s sake,Upon whose fac� in her barme[6] sleep�ngFull many a tear she wept in complain�ng.After all this so as she stood and quoke,Her child beholding mid of her paines' smart,Without abode the sharp� sword she took,And rove herself� even to the heart;Her child fell down, which might� not astart,Having no help to succour him nor save,But in her blood theself began to bathe.

Within the hall, neither rich nor yet poor Would do for me ought, although I should die:Which seeing, I gat me out of the door, Where Flemings began on me for to cry, 'Master, what will you copen[1] or buy?Fine felt hats? or spectacles to read?Lay down your silver, and here you may speed.

Then to Westminster gate I presently went, When the sun was at high prime:Cooks to me they took good intent,[2] And proffered me bread, with ale and wine, Ribs of beef, both fat and full fine;A fair cloth they 'gan for to spread,But, wanting money, I might not be sped.

Then unto London I did me hie, Of all the land it beareth the price;'Hot peascods!' one began to cry, 'Strawberry ripe, and cherries in the rise!'[3] One bade me come near and buy some spice;Pepper, and saffron they 'gan me beed;[4]But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then to the Cheap I 'gan me drawn, Where much people I saw for to stand;One offered me velvet, silk, and lawn, Another he taketh me by the hand, 'Here is Paris thread, the finest in the land!'I never was used to such things, indeed;And, wanting money, I might not speed.

Then went I forth by London Stone, Throughout all Canwick Street:Drapers much cloth me offered anon; Then comes me one cried 'Hot sheep's feet;' One cried mackerel, rushes green, another 'gan greet,[5]One bade me buy a hood to cover my head;But, for want of money, I might not be sped.

Then I hied me unto East-Cheap, One cries ribs of beef, and many a pie;Pewter pots they clattered on a heap; There was harp, pipe, and minstrelsy; Yea by cock! nay by cock! some began cry;Some sung of Jenkin and Julian for their meed;But, for lack of money, I might not speed.

Then into Cornhill anon I yode,[6] Where was much stolen gear among;I saw where hung mine own� hood, That I had lost among the throng; To buy my own hood I thought it wrong:I knew it well, as I did my creed;But, for lack of money, I could not speed.

The taverner took me by the sleeve, 'Sir,' saith he, 'will you our wine assay?'I answered, 'That can not much me grieve, A penny can do no more than it may;' I drank a pint, and for it did pay;Yet, sore a-hungered from thence I yede,[7]And, wanting money, I could not speed.

John Harding flourished about the year 1403. He fought at the battle ofShrewsbury on the Percy side. He is the author of a poem entitled 'TheChronicle of England unto the Reign of King Edward the Fourth, inVerse.' It has no poetic merit, and little interest, except to theantiquary. In the reign of the above king we find the first mention ofa Poet Laureate. John Kay was appointed by Edward, when he returned fromItaly, Poet Laureate to the king, but has, perhaps fortunately for theworld, left behind him no poems. Would that the same had been the casewith some of his successors in the office! There is reason to believe,that for nearly two centuries ere this date, there had existed in thecourt a personage, entitled the King's Versifier, (versificator,) towhom one hundred shillings a-year was the salary, and that the titlewas, by and by, changed to that of Poet Laureate, _i.e._, LaurelledPoet. It had long been customary in the universities to crown scholarswhen they graduated with laurel, and Warton thinks that from these thefirst poet laureates were selected, less for their general genius thanfor their skill in Latin verse. Certainly the earliest of the Laureatepoems, such as those by Baston and Gulielmus, who acted as royal poetsto Richard I. and Edward II., and wrote, the one on Richard's Crusade,and the other on Edward's Siege of Stirling Castle, are in Latin. Sotoo are the productions of Andrew Bernard, who was the Poet Laureatesuccessively to Henry VII. and Henry VIII. It was not till after theReformation had lessened the superstitious veneration for the Latintongue that the laureates began to write in English. It is almost apity, we are sometimes disposed to think, that, in reference to suchodes as those of Pye, Whitehead, Colley Cibber, and even some ofSouthey's, the old practice had not continued; since thus, in the firstplace, we might have had a chance of elegant Latinity, in the absence ofpoetry and sense; and since, secondly, the deficiencies of the laureatepoems would have been disguised, from the general eye at least, underthe veil of an unknown tongue. It is curious to notice about this periodthe uprise of two didactic poets, both writing on alchymy, the chemistryof that day, and neither displaying a spark of genius. These are JohnNorton and George Ripley, both renowned for learning and knowledge oftheir beloved occult sciences. Their poems, that by Norton, entitled'The Ordinal,' and that by Ripley, entitled 'The Compound of Alchemie,'are dry and rugged treatises, done into indifferent verse. One ratherfine fancy occurs in the first of these. It is that of an alchymist whoprojected a bridge of gold over the Thames, near London, crowned withpinnacles of gold, which, being studded with carbuncles, should diffusea blaze of light in the dark! Alchymy has had other and nobler singersthan Ripley and Norton. It has, as Warton remarks, 'enriched the store-house of Arabian romance with many magnificent imageries.' It is theinspiration of two of the noblest romances in this or any language--'St. Leon' and 'Zanoni.' And its idea, transfigured into a transcen-dental form, gave light and life and fire, and the loftiest poetry, tothe eloquence of the lamented Samuel Brown, whose tongue, as he talkedon his favourite theme, seemed transmuted into gold; nay, whose lips,like the touch of Midas, seemed to create the effects of alchymy uponevery subject they approached, and upon every heart over which theywielded their sorcery.

We pass now from this comparatively barren age in the history of Englishpoetry to a cluster of Scottish bards. The first of these is ROBERTHENRYSON. He was schoolmaster at Dunfermline, and died some time before1508. He is supposed by Lord Hailes to have been preceptor of youth inthe Benedictine convent in that place. He is the author of 'Robene andMakyne,' a pastoral ballad of very considerable merit, and of whichCampbell says, somewhat too warmly, 'It is the first known pastoral,'(he means in the Scottish language of course,) 'and one of the best, ina dialect rich with the favours of the pastoral muse.' He wrote also asequel to Chaucer's 'Troilus and Cresseide' entitled 'The Testament ofCresseide,' and thirteen Fables, of which copies, in MS., are preservedin the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh. One of these, 'The Town andCountry Mouse,' tells that old story with considerable spirit andhumour. 'The Garment of Good Ladies' is an ingenious and beautifulstrain, written in that quaint style of allegorising which continuedpopular as far down as the days of Cowley, and even later.

DINNER GIVEN BY THE TOWN MOUSE TO THE COUNTRY MOUSE.

* * * Their harboury was ta'enInto a spence,[1] where victual was plenty,Both cheese and butter on long shelves right high,With fish and flesh enough, both fresh and salt,And pockis full of groats, both meal and malt.

After, when they disposed were to dine,Withouten grace they wuish[2] and went to meat,On every dish that cookmen can divine,Mutton and beef stricken out in telyies grit;[3]A lord�'s fare thus can they counterfeit,Except one thing--they drank the water clearInstead of wine, but yet they made good cheer.

With blithe upcast and merry countenance,The elder sister then spier'd[4] at her guest,If that she thought by reason differenceBetwixt that chamber and her sairy[5] nest.'Yea, dame,' quoth she, 'but how long will this last?''For evermore, I wait,[6] and longer too;''If that be true, ye are at ease,' quoth she.

To eke the cheer, in plenty forth they broughtA plate of groatis and a dish of meal,A threif[7] of cakes, I trow she spared them nought,Abundantly about her for to deal.Furmage full fine she brought instead of jeil,A white candle out of a coffer staw,[8]Instead of spice, to creish[9] their teeth witha'.

Thus made they merry, till they might nae mair,And, 'Hail, Yule, hail!' they cryit up on high;But after joy oftentimes comes care,And trouble after great prosperity.Thus as they sat in all their jollity,The spencer came with keyis in his hand,Open'd the door, and them at dinner fand.

They tarried not to wash, as I suppose,But on to go, who might the foremost win:The burgess had a hole, and in she goes,Her sister had no place to hide her in;To see that silly mouse it was great sin,So desolate and wild of all good rede,[10]For very fear she fell in swoon, near dead.

Then as God would it fell in happy case,The spencer had no leisure for to bide,Neither to force, to seek, nor scare, nor chase,But on he went and cast the door up-wide.This burgess mouse his passage well has spied.Out of her hole she came and cried on high,'How, fair sister, cry peep, where'er thou be.'

The rural mouse lay flatlings on the ground,And for the death she was full dreadand,For to her heart struck many woful stound,As in a fever trembling foot and hand;And when her sister in such plight her fand,For very pity she began to greet,Syne[11] comfort gave, with words as honey sweet.

'Why lie ye thus? Rise up, my sister dear,Come to your meat, this peril is o'erpast.'The other answer'd with a heavy cheer,'I may nought eat, so sore I am aghast.Lever[12] I had this forty dayis fast,With water kail, and green beans and peas,Than all your feast with this dread and disease.'

With fair 'treaty, yet gart she her arise;To board they went, and on together sat,But scantly had they drunken once or twice,When in came Gib Hunt�r, our jolly cat,And bade God speed. The burgess up then gat,And to her hole she fled as fire of flint;Bawdrons[13] the other by the back has hent.[14]

From foot to foot he cast her to and frae,Whiles up, whiles down, as cant[15] as any kid;Whiles would he let her run under the strae[16]Whiles would he wink and play with her buik-hid;[17]Thus to the silly mouse great harm he did;Till at the last, through fair fortune and hap,Betwixt the dresser and the wall she crap.[18]

Syne up in haste behind the panelling,So high she clamb, that Gilbert might not get her,And by the cluiks[19] craftily can hing,Till he was gone, her cheer was all the better:Syne down she lap, when there was none to let her;Then on the burgess mouse loud could she cry,'Farewell, sister, here I thy feast defy.

Thy mangery is minget[20] all with care,Thy guise is good, thy gane-full[21] sour as gall;The fashion of thy feris is but fair,So shall thou find hereafterward may fall.I thank yon curtain, and yon parpane[22] wall,Of my defence now from yon cruel beast;Almighty God, keep me from such a feast!

Were I into the place that I came frae,For weal nor woe I should ne'er come again.'With that she took her leave, and forth can gae,Till through the corn, till through the plain.When she was forth and free she was right fain,And merrily linkit unto the muir,I cannot tell how afterward she fure.[23]

But I heard syne she passed to her den,As warm as wool, suppose it was not grit,Full beinly[24] stuffed was both butt and ben,With peas and nuts, and beans, and rye and wheat;Whene'er she liked, she had enough of meat,In quiet and ease, withouten [any] dread,But to her sister's feast no more she gaed.

[FROM THE MORAL.]

Blessed be simple life, withouten dreid;Blessed be sober feast in quiet�;Who has enough, of no more has he need,Though it be little into quantity.Great abundance, and blind prosperity,Ofttim�s make an evil conclusion;The sweetest life, therefore, in this country,Is of sickerness,[25] with small possession.

This was a man of the true and sovereign seed of genius. Sir WalterScott calls Dunbar 'a poet unrivalled by any--that Scotland has everproduced.' We venture to call him the Dante of Scotland; nay, wequestion if any English poet has surpassed 'The Dance of the SevenDeadly Sins through Hell' in its peculiarly Dantesque qualities ofsevere and purged grandeur; of deep sincerity, and in that air of moraldisappointment and sorrow, approaching despair, which distinguished thesad-hearted lover of Beatrice, who might almost have exclaimed, with oneyet mightier than he in his misery and more miserable in his might,

'Where'er I am is Hell--myself am Hell.'

Foster, in an entry in his journal, (we quote from memory,) says, 'Ihave just seen the moon rising, and wish the impression to be eternal.What a look she casts upon earth, like that of a celestial being wholoves our planet still, but has given up all hope of ever doing her anygood or seeing her become any better--so serene she seems in her settledand unutterable sadness.' Such, we have often fancied, was the feelingof the great Florentine toward the world, and which--pained, pitying,yearning enthusiast that he was!--escaped irresistibly from those deep-set eyes, that adamantine jaw, and that brow, wearing the laurel, proudlyyet painfully, as if it were a crown of everlasting fire! Dunbar was notaltogether a Dante, either in melancholy or in power, but his 'Dance'reveals kindred moods, operating at times on a kindred genius.

In Dante humour existed too, but ere it could come up from his deepnature to the surface, it must freeze and stiffen into monumental scorn--a laughter that seemed, while mocking at all things else, to mock atits own mockery most of all. Aird speaks in his 'Demoniac,' of a smileupon his hero's brow,

'Like the lightning of a hope about to DIE For ever from the furrow'd brows of Hell's Eternity.'

Dante's smile may rather be compared to the RISING of a false and self-detected hope upon the lost brows where it is never to come to dawn, andwhere, nevertheless, it remains for ever, like a smile carved upona sepulchre. Dunbar has a more joyous disposition than his Italianprototype and master, and he indulges himself to the top of his bent,but in a style (particularly in his 'Twa Married Women and the Widow,'and in 'The Friars of Berwick,' which is not, however, quite certainlyhis) too coarse and prurient for the taste of this age.

'The Merle and the Nightingale' is one of the finest of Moelibean poems.Beautiful is the contest between the two sweet singers as to whether thelove of man or the love of God be the nobler, and more beautiful stilltheir reconciliation, when

'Then sang they both with voices loud and clear, The Merle sang, "Man, love God that has thee wrought." The Nightingale sang, "Man, love the Lord most dear, That thee and all this world made of nought." The Merle said, "Love him that thy love has sought From heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone." The Nightingale sang. "And with his death thee bought: All love is lost, but upon him alone."

_'Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen, Singing of love among the leaves small.'_

William Dunbar is said to have been born about the year 1465. Hereceived his education at St Andrews, and took there the degree of M.A.in 1479. He became then a friar of the Franciscan order, (Grey Friars,)and in the exercise of his profession seems to have rambled over allScotland, England, and France, preaching, begging, and, according to hisown confession, cheating, lying, and cajoling. Yet if this kind of lifewas not propitious, in his case, to morality, it must have been to thedevelopment of the poetic faculty. It enabled him to see all varietiesof life and of scenery, although here and there, in his verses, you findsymptoms of that bitterness which is apt to arise in the heart of awanderer. He was subsequently employed by James IV. in some officialwork connected with various foreign embassies, which led him to Spain,Italy, and Germany, as well as England and France. This proves that hewas no less a man of business-capacity and habits than a poet. For theseservices he, in 1500, received from the King a pension of ten pounds,afterwards increased to twenty, and, in fine, to eighty. He is said tohave been employed in the negotiations preparatory to the marriage ofJames with Margaret Tudor, daughter of Henry VII., which took place in1503, and which our poet celebrated in his verses, 'The Thistle and theRose.' He continued ever afterwards in the Court, hovering in positionbetween a laureate and a court-fool, charming James with his wittyconversation as well as his verses, but refused the benefices for whichhe petitioned, and gradually devoured by chagrin and disappointment.Seldom has genius so great been placed in a falser position, and thishas given a querulous tinge to many of his poems. He seems to have diedabout 1520. Even after his death, misfortune pursued him. His workswere, with the exception of two or three pieces, locked up in an obscureMS. till the middle of last century. Since then, however, their fame hasbeen still increasing. In 1834, Mr David Laing, so favourably known asone of our first antiquarians, published a complete and elaborate editionof Dunbar's works; and in a newspaper this very day (May 23) we see anotheredition announced, in a popular and modernised shape, of the poetry of thisgreat old Scottish _Makkar_.

THE DANCE OF THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS THROUGH HELL.

I.

Of Februar' the fifteenth night,Full long before the dayis light, I lay into a trance;And then I saw both Heaven and Hell;Methought among the fiendis fell, Mahoun[1] gart[2] cry a Dance,Of shrewis[3] that were never shrevin,[4]Against the feast of Fastern's even,To make their observ�nce:He bade gallants go graith[5] a guise,[6]And cast up gamounts[7] in the skies, As varlets do in France.

II. * * * * *Holy harlottis in hautane[8] wise,Came in with many sundry guise, But yet laugh'd never Mah�un,Till priests came in with bare shaven necks,Then all the fiends laugh'd and made gecks,[9]Black-Belly and Bawsy-Broun.[10] * * * * *

III.

'Let's see,' quoth he, 'now who begins:'With that the foul Seven Deadly Sins Began to leap at anis.[11]And first of all in dance was Pride,With hair wyld[12] back, and bonnet on side, Like to make wasty weanis;[13]And round about him, as a wheel,Hang all in rumples to the heel, His kethat[14] for the nanis.[15]Many proud trompour[16] with him tripped,Through scalding fire aye as they skipped, They girn'd[17] with hideous granis.[18]

IV.

Then Ire came in with sturt[19] and strife,His hand was aye upon his knife, He brandish'd like a beir;Boasters, braggers, and barganeris,[20]After him passed into pairis,[21] All bodin in feir of weir.[22]In jackis, scripis, and bonnets of steel,Their legs were chenyiet[23] to the heel, Froward was their affeir,[24]Some upon other with brands beft,[25]Some jaggit[26] others to the heft[27] With knives that sharp could shear.

V.

Next in the dance follow'd Envy,Fill'd full of feud and felony, Hid malice and despite,For privy hatred that traitor trembled;Him follow'd many freik[28] dissembled,With feigned wordis white. And flatterers into men's faces,And backbiters in secret placesTo lie that had delight, And rowneris[29] of false les�ngs;[30]Alas, that courts of noble kings Of them can never be quite![31]

VI.

Next him in dance came Covetice,Root of all evil and ground of vice, That never could be content,Caitiffs, wretches, and ockerars,[32]Hood-pikes,[33] hoarders, and gatherers, All with that warlock went.Out of their throats they shot on otherHot molten gold, methought, a fother,[34] As fire-flaucht[35] most ferv�nt;Aye as they tumit[36] them of shot,Fiends fill'd them new up to the throat With gold of all kind prent.[37]

VII.

Syne[38] Sweirness[39] at the second biddingCame like a sow out of a midding,[40] Full sleepy was his grunyie.[41]Many sweir bumbard[42] belly-huddroun,[43]Many slute daw[44] and sleepy duddroun,[45] Him served aye with sounyie.[46]He drew them forth into a chenyie,[47]And Belial with a bridle-rennyie,[48] Ever lash'd them on the lunyie.[49]In dance they were so slow of feetThey gave them in the fire a heat, And made them quicker of counyie.[50]

VIII.

Then Lechery, that loathly corse,Came bearing like a bagged horse,[51] And Idleness did him lead;There was with him an ugly sort[52]And many stinking foul tramort,[53] That had in sin been dead.When they were enter'd in the dance,They were full strange of countenance, Like torches burning reid. * * * * *

IX.

Then the foul monster Gluttony,Of wame[54] insatiable and greedy, To dance he did him dress;Him followed many a foul drunk�rtWith can and collep, cop and quart,[55] In surfeit and excess.Full many a waistless wally-drag[56]With wames unwieldable did forth drag, In creish[57] that did incress;Drink, aye they cried, with many a gape,The fiends gave them hot lead to laip,[58]Their leveray[59] was no less.

X. * * * * *No minstrels play'd to them but[60] doubt,For gleemen there were holden out, By day and eke by night,Except a minstrel that slew a man;So till his heritage he wan,[61] And enter'd by brief of right. * * * * *

XI.

Then cried Mahoun for a Highland padyane,[62]Syne ran a fiend to fetch Mac Fadyane,[63] Far northward in a nook,By he the Correnoch had done shout,[64]Ersch-men[65] so gather'd him about In hell great room they took:These termagants, with tag and tatter,Full loud in Ersch began to clatter, And roup[66] like raven and rook.The devil so deaved[67] was with their yell,That in the deepest pot of hell He smored[68] them with smoke.

In May, as that Aurora did upspring,With crystal een[1] chasing the cludd�s sable,I heard a Merle[2] with merry not�s singA song of love, with voice right comfort�ble,Against the orient beamis, amiable,Upon a blissful branch of laurel green;This was her sentence, sweet and delectable,'A lusty life in Lov�'s service been.'

Under this branch ran down a river bright,Of balmy liquor, crystalline of hue,Against the heavenly azure skyis light,Where did upon the other side pursueA Nightingale, with sugar'd not�s new,Whose angel feathers as the peacock shone;This was her song, and of a sentence true,'All love is lost but upon God alone.'

With not�s glad, and glorious harmony,This joyful merle, so salust[3] she the day,While rung the woodis of her melody,Saying, 'Awake, ye lovers of this May;Lo, fresh Flora has flourish'd every spray,As nature, has her taught, the noble queen,The fields be clothed in a new array;A lusty life in Lov�'s service been.'

Ne'er sweeter noise was heard with living man,Than made this merry gentle nightingale;Her sound went with the river as it ran,Out through the fresh and flourish'd lusty vale;'O Merle!' quoth she, 'O fool! stint of thy tale,For in thy song good sentence is there none,For both is tint,[4] the time and the travail,Of every love but upon God alone.'

'Cease,' quoth the Merle, 'thy preaching, Nightingale:Shall folk their youth spend into holiness?Of young saintis, grow old fiendis, but[5] fable;Fy, hypocrite, in yearis' tenderness,Against the law of kind[6] thou goes express,That crooked age makes one with youth serene,Whom nature of conditions made diverse:A lusty life in Lov�'s service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Fool, remember thee,That both in youth and eild,[7] and every hour,The love of God most dear to man should be;That him, of nought, wrought like his own figour,And died himself, from death him to succour;Oh, whether was kythit[8] there true love or none?He is most true and steadfast paramour,And love is lost but upon him alone.'

The Merle said, 'Why put God so great beautyIn ladies, with such womanly hav�ng,But if he would that they should loved be?To love eke nature gave them inclin�ng,And He of nature that worker was and king,Would nothing frustir[9] put, nor let be seen,Into his creature of his own making;A lusty life in Lov�'s service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Not to that behoofPut God such beauty in a lady's face,That she should have the thank therefor or love,But He, the worker, that put in her such grace;Of beauty, bounty, riches, time, or space,And every goodness that been to come or goneThe thank redounds to him in every place:All love is lost but upon God alone.'

'O Nightingale! it were a story nice,That love should not depend on charity;And, if that virtue contrar' be to vice,Then love must be a virtue, as thinks me;For, aye, to love envy must contrar' be:God bade eke love thy neighbour from the spleen;[10]And who than ladies sweeter neighbours be?A lusty life in Lov�'s service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'Bird, why does thou rave?Man may take in his lady such delight,Him to forget that her such virtue gave,And for his heaven receive her colour white:Her golden tressed hairis redomite,[11]Like to Apollo's beamis though they shone,Should not him blind from love that is perfite;All love is lost but upon God alone.'

The Merle said, 'Love is cause of honour aye,Love makis cowards manhood to purchase,Love makis knightis hardy at essay,Love makis wretches full of larg�ness,Love makis sweir[12] folks full of business,Love makis sluggards fresh and well beseen,[13]Love changes vice in virtuous nobleness;A lusty life in Lov�'s service been.'

The Nightingale said, 'True is the contrary;Such frustis love it blindis men so far,Into their minds it makis them to vary;In false vain-glory they so drunken are,Their wit is went, of woe they are not 'ware,Till that all worship away be from them gone,Fame, goods, and strength; wherefore well say I dare,All love is lost but upon God alone.'

Then said the Merle, 'Mine error I confess:This frustis love is all but vanity:Blind ignorance me gave such hardiness,To argue so against the verity;Wherefore I counsel every man that heWith love not in the fiendis net be tone,[14]But love the love that did for his love die:All love is lost but upon God alone.'

Then sang they both with voices loud and clear,The Merle sang, 'Man, love God that has thee wrought.'The Nightingale sang, 'Man, love the Lord most dear,That thee and all this world made of nought.'The Merle said, 'Love him that thy love has soughtFrom heaven to earth, and here took flesh and bone.'The Nightingale sang, 'And with his death thee bought:All love is lost but upon him alone.'

Then flew these birds over the boughis sheen,Singing of love among the leav�s small;Whose eidant plead yet made my thoughtis grein,[15]Both sleeping, waking, in rest and in travail;Me to recomfort most it does avail,Again for love, when love I can find none,To think how sung this Merle and Nightingale;'All love is lost but upon God alone.'

This eminent prelate was a younger son of Archibald, the fifth Earl ofAngus. He was born in Brechin about the year 1474. He studied at theUniversity of Paris. He became a churchman, and yet united withattention to the duties of his calling great proficiency in politelearning. In 1513 he finished a translation, into Scottish verse, ofVirgil's 'Aeneid,' which, considering the age, is an extraordinaryperformance. It occupied him only sixteen months. The multitude ofobsolete terms, however, in which it abounds, renders it now, as awhole, illegible. After passing through various subordinate offices,such as the 'Provostship' of St Giles's, Edinburgh, and the 'Abbotship'of Arbroath, he was at length appointed Bishop of Dunkeld. Dunkeld wasnot then the paradise it has become, but Birnam hill and the othermountains then, as now, stood round about it, the old Cathedral rose upin mediaeval majesty, and the broad, smooth Tay flowed onward to theocean. And, doubtless, Douglas felt the poetic inspiration from it quiteas warmly as did Thomas Brown, when, three centuries afterwards, he setup the staff of his summer rest at the beautiful Invar inn, and thencedelighted to diverge to the hundred scenes of enchantment which stretcharound. The good Bishop was an ardent politician as well as a poet, andwas driven, by his share in the troubles of the times, to flee from hisnative land, and take refuge in the Court of Henry VIII. The Kingreceived him kindly, and treated him with much liberality. In 1522 hedied at London of the plague, and was interred in the Savoy Church.He was, according to Buchanan, about to proceed to Rome to vindicatehimself before the Pope against certain charges brought by his enemies.Besides the translation of the 'Aeneid,' Douglas is the author of a longpoem entitled the 'Palace of Honour;' it is an allegory, describinga large company making a pilgrimage to Honour's Palace. It bearsconsiderable resemblance to the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and some supposethat Bunyan had seen it before composing his allegory. 'King Hart' isanother production of our poet's, of considerable length and merit. Itgives, metaphorically, a view of human life. Perhaps his best pieces arehis 'Prologues,' affixed to each book of the 'Aeneid.' From them we haveselected 'Morning in May' as a specimen. The closing lines are fine.

'Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day, Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green, Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen, Welcome support of every root and vein, Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain,' &c.

Douglas must not be named with Dunbar in strength and grandeur ofgenius. His power is more in expression than in conception, and hencehe has shone so much in translation. His version of the 'Aeneid' is thefirst made of any classic into a British tongue, and is the worthyprogenitor of such minor miracles of poetical talent--all somewhat moremechanical than inspired, and yet giving a real, though subordinateglory to our literature-as Fairfax's 'Tasso,' Dryden's 'Virgil,' andPope's, Coper's, and Sotheby's 'Homer.' The fire in Douglas' originalverses is occasionally lost in smoke, and the meaning buried in floweryverbiage. Still he was an honour alike to the Episcopal bench and theMuse of Scotland. He was of amiable manners, gentle temperament, and anoble and commanding appearance.

MORNING IN MAY.

As fresh Aurore, to mighty Tithon spouse,Ished of[1] her saffron bed and ivor' house,In cram'sy clad and grained violate,With sanguine cape, and selvage purpurate,Unshet[2] the windows of her larg� hall,Spread all with roses, and full of balm royal,And eke the heavenly portis crystallineUnwarps broad, the world to illumine;The twinkling streamers of the orientShed purpour spraings,[3] with gold and azure ment;[4]Eous, the steed, with ruby harness red,Above the seas liftis forth his head,Of colour sore,[5] and somedeal brown as berry,For to alighten and glad our hemispery;The flame out-bursten at the neisthirls,[6]So fast Phaeton with the whip him whirls. * *While shortly, with the blazing torch of day,Abulyit[7] in his lemand[8] fresh array,Forth of his palace royal ished Phoebus,With golden crown and visage glorious,Crisp hairs, bright as chrysolite or topaz;For whose hue might none behold his face. * *The aureate vanes of his throne soverainWith glittering glance o'erspread the oceane;The larg� flood�s, lemand all of light,But with one blink of his supernal sight.For to behold, it was a glore to seeThe stabled windis, and the calmed sea,The soft season, the firmament serene,The loune[9] illuminate air and firth amene. * *And lusty Flora did her bloomis spreadUnder the feet of Phoebus' sulyart[10] steed;The swarded soil embrode with selcouth[11] hues,Wood and forest, obumbrat� with bews.[12] * *Towers, turrets, kirnals,[13] and pinnacles high,Of kirks, castles, and ilk fair city,Stood painted, every fane, phiol,[14] and stage,[15]Upon the plain ground by their own umbrage.Of Aeolus' north blasts having no dreid,The soil spread her broad bosom on-breid;The corn crops and the beir new-brairdWith gladsome garment revesting the yerd.[16] * *The prai[17] besprent with springing sprouts disperseFor caller humours[18] on the dewy nightRendering some place the gers�-piles[19] their light;As far as cattle the lang summer's dayHad in their pasture eat and nip away;And blissful blossoms in the bloomed yerd,Submit their heads to the young sun's safeguard.Ivy-leaves rank o'erspread the barmkin wall;The bloomed hawthorn clad his pikis all;Forth of fresh bourgeons[20] the wine grap�s ying[21]Endlong the trellis did on twistis hing;The loukit buttons on the gemmed treesO'erspreading leaves of nature's tapestries;Soft grassy verdure after balmy showers,On curling stalkis smiling to their flowers. * *The daisy did on-breid her crownal small,And every flower unlapped in the dale. * *Sere downis small on dentilion sprang.The young green bloomed strawberry leaves amang;Jimp jeryflowers thereon leaves unshet,Fresh primrose and the purpour violet; * *Heavenly lilies, with lockerand toppis white,Open'd and shew their crestis redemite. * *A paradise it seemed to draw nearThese galyard gardens and each green herbere.Most amiable wax the emerald meads;Swarmis soughis throughout the respand reeds,Over the lochis and the floodis gray,Searching by kind a place where they should lay.Phoebus' red fowl,[22] his cural crest can steer,Oft stretching forth his heckle, crowing clear.Amid the wortis and the rootis gentPicking his meat in alleys where he went,His wiv�s Toppa and Partolet him by--A bird all-time that hauntis bigamy.The painted powne[23] pacing with plum�s gym,Cast up his tail a proud pleasand wheel-rim,Yshrouded in his feathering bright and sheen,Shaping the print of Argus' hundred een.Among the bowis of the olive twists,Sere[24] small fowls, working crafty nests,Endlong the hedges thick, and on rank aiks[25]Ilk bird rejoicing with their mirthful makes.In corners and clear fenestres[26] of glass,Full busily Arachne weaving was,To knit her nettis and her webbis sly,Therewith to catch the little midge or fly.So dusty powder upstours[27] in every street,While corby gasped for the fervent heat.Under the boughis bene[28] in lovely vales,Within fermance and parkis close of pales,The busteous buckis rakis forth on raw,Herdis of hartis through the thick wood-shaw.The young fawns following the dun does,Kids, skipping through, runnis after roes.In leisurs and on leais, little lambsFull tait and trig sought bleating to their dams.On salt streams wolk[29] Dorida and Thetis,By running strandis, Nymphis and Naiadis,Such as we clepe wenches and damasels,In gersy[30] groves wandering by spring wells;Of bloomed branches and flowers white and red,Platting their lusty chaplets for their head.Some sang ring-song�s, dances, leids,[31] and rounds.With voices shrill, while all thel dale resounds.Whereso they walk into their carolling,For amorous lays does all the rockis ring.One sang, 'The ship sails over the salt faem,Will bring the merchants and my leman hame.'Some other sings, 'I will be blithe and light,My heart is lent upon so goodly wight.'[32]And thoughtful lovers rounis[33] to and fro,To leis[34] their pain, and plain their jolly woe;After their guise, now singing, now in sorrow,With heartis pensive the long summer's morrow.Some ballads list indite of his lady;Some lives in hope; and some all utterlyDespaired is, and so quite out of grace,His purgatory he finds in every place. * *Dame Nature's minstrels, on that other part,Their blissful lay intoning every art, * *And all small fowlis singis on the spray,Welcome the lord of light, and lamp of day,Welcome fosterer of tender herbis green,Welcome quickener of flourish'd flowers sheen,Welcome support of every root and vein,Welcome comfort of all kind fruit and grain,Welcome the birdis' bield[35] upon the brier,Welcome master and ruler of the year,Welcome welfare of husbands at the ploughs,Welcome repairer of woods, trees, and boughs,Welcome depainter of the bloomed meads,Welcome the life of every thing that spreads,Welcome storer of all kind bestial,Welcome be thy bright beamis, gladding all. * *

Stephen Hawes, a native of Suffolk, wrote about the close of thefifteenth century. He studied at Oxford, and travelled much in France,where he became a master of French and Italian poetry. King Henry VII.,struck with his conversation and the readiness with which he repeatedold English poets, especially Lydgate, created him groom of the privychamber. Hawes has written a number of poems, such as 'The Temple ofGlasse,' 'The Conversion of Swearers,' 'The Consolation of Lovers,' 'ThePastime of Pleasure,' &c. Those who wish to see specimens of the strangeallegories and curious devices of thought in which it abounds, may findthem in Warton's 'History of English Poetry.'

In that same valuable work we find an account of Alexander Barclay, authorof 'The Ship of Fools.' He was educated at Oriel College in Oxford, andafter travelling abroad, was appointed one of the priests or prebendariesof the College of St Mary Ottery, in Devonshire--a parish famous in laterdays for the birth of Coleridge. Barclay became afterwards a Benedictinemonk of Ely monastery; and at length a brother of the Order of St Francis,at Canterbury. He died, a very old man, at Croydon, in Surrey, in the year1552. His principal work, 'The Ship of Fools,' is a satire upon the vicesand absurdities of his age, and shews considerable wit and power ofsarcasm.

SKELTON.

John Skelton is the name of the next poet. He flourished in the earlierpart of the reign of Henry VIII. Having studied both at Oxford andCambridge, and been laureated at the former university in 1489, he waspromoted to the rectory of Diss or Dysse, in Norfolk. Some say he hadacted previously as tutor to Henry VIII. At Dysse he attracted attentionby satirical ballads against the mendicants, as well as by licences ofbuffoonery in the pulpit. For these he was censured, and even, it issaid, suspended, by Nykke, Bishop of Norwich. Undaunted by this, he flewat higher game--ventured to ridicule Cardinal Wolsey, then in his power,and had to take refuge from the myrmidons of the prelate in WestminsterAbbey. There Abbot Islip kindly entertained and protected him till hisdying day. He breathed his last in the year 1529, and was buried in theadjacent church of St Margaret's.

Skelton as well as Barclay enjoyed considerable popularity in his ownage. Erasmus calls him 'Britannicarum literarum lumen et decus!' Howdark must have been the night in which such a Will-o'-wisp was mistakenfor a star! He has wit, indeed, and satirical observation; but his witis wilder than it is strong, and his satire is dashed with personalityand obscenity. His style, Campbell observes, is 'almost a texture ofslang phrases, patched with shreds of French and Latin.' His verses onMargaret Hussey, which we have quoted, are in his happiest vein. Thefollowing lines, too, on Cardinal Wolsey, are as true as they areterse:--

'Then in the Chamber of Stars All matter there he mars. Clapping his rod on the board, No man dare speak a word. For he hath all the saying, Without any renaying. He rolleth in his rec�rds; He sayeth, How say ye, my Lords? Is not my reason good? Good even, good Robin Hood. Some say, Yes; and some Sit still, as they were dumb.'

It is curious that Wolsey's enemies, in one of their charges against himin the Parliament of 1529, have repeated, almost in the words of Skelton,the same accusation.

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

Merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; With solace and gladness, Much mirth and no madness, All good and no badness; So joyously, So maidenly, So womanly, Her demeaning, In everything, Far, far passing, That I can indite, Or suffice to write, Of merry Margaret, As midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower; As patient and as still, And as full of good-will, As fair Isiphil, Coliander, Sweet Pomander, Good Cassander; Steadfast of thought, Well made, well wrought. Far may be sought, Ere you can find So courteous, so kind, As merry Margaret, This midsummer flower, Gentle as falcon, Or hawk of the tower.

SIR DAVID LYNDSAY.

Returning to Scotland, we find a Skelton of a higher order and abrawnier make in Sir David Lyndsay, or, as our forefathers were wontfamiliarly to denominate him, 'Davie Lyndsay.' Lyndsay was descendedfrom a noble family, a younger branch of Lyndsay of the Byres, and bornin 1490, probably at the Mount, the family-seat, near Cupar-Fife. Heentered the University of St Andrews in the year 1505, and four yearslater left it to travel in Italy. He must, however, have returned toScotland before the 12th of October 1511, since we learn from therecords of the Lord Treasurer that he was presented with a quantity of'blue and yellow taffety to be a playcoat for the play performed in theKing and Queen's presence in the Abbey of Holyrood.' On the 12th ofApril 1512, Lyndsay, then twenty-two years of age, was appointedgentleman-usher to James V., who had been born that very day. In hispoem called 'The Dream,' he reminds the King of his having borne himin his arms ere he could walk; of having wrapped him up warmly in hislittle bed; of having sung to him with his lute, danced before him tomake him laugh, and having carried him on his shoulders like a 'pedlarhis pack.' He continued to be page and companion to the King till 1524,when, in consequence of the unprincipled machinations of the Queen-mother--who was acting as Regent--he, as well as Bellenden, the learnedtranslator of Livy and Boece, was ejected from his office. When, however,in 1528, the young King, by a noble effort, emancipated himself from thethraldom of his mother and the Douglasses, Lyndsay wrote his 'Dream,' inwhich, amidst much poetic or fantastic matter, he congratulates James onhis deliverance; reminds him, as aforesaid, of his early services; andtakes occasion to paint the evils the country had endured during hisminority, and to give him some bold and salutary advice as to his futureconduct. The next year (1529) he produced 'The Complaint,' a poem inwhich he recurs to former themes, and remonstrates with great freedomand severity against the treatment he had undergone. Here, too, thereligious reformer peeps out. He exhorts the King to compel the clergyto attend to the duties of their office; to preach more earnestly; toadminister the sacraments according to the institution of Christ; and notto deceive their people with superstitious pilgrimages, vain traditions,and prayers to graven images, contrary to the written command of God. Hewith quaint iron says, that if his Grace will lend him

'Of gold ane thousand pound or tway,'

he will give him a sealed bond, obliging himself to repay the loan whenthe Bass and the Isle of May are set upon Mount Sinai; or the Lomondhills, near Falkland, are removed to Northumberland; or

'When kirkmen yairnis [desire] na dignity, Nor wives na soveranitie.'

Still finer the last lines of the poem. 'If not,' he says, 'my God

'Shall cause me stand content With quiet life and sober rent, And take me, in my latter age, Unto my simple hermitage, To spend the gear my elders won, As did Diogenes in his tun.'

This 'Complaint' proved successful, and in the next year (1530) Lyndsaywas appointed Lion King-at-Arms--an office of great dignity in thesedays. The Lion was the chief judge of all matters connected withheraldry in the realm; was also the official ambassador from hissovereign to foreign countries; and was inaugurated in his office witha pomp and circumstance little inferior to those of a royal coronation,the King crowning him with his own hands, anointing him with wineinstead of oil, and putting on his head the Royal Crown of Scotland,which he continued to wear till the close of the feast. It is of Lyndsayin the full accoutrements of this office that Sir Walter Scott speaks inhis 'Marmion,' although he antedates by sixteen years the time when heassumed it:--

'He was a man of middle age, In aspect manly, grave, and sage, As on king's errand come; But in the glances of his eye, A penetrating, keen, and sly Expression found its home-- The flash of that satiric rage Which, bursting on the early stage, Branded the vices of the age, And broke the keys of Rome. On milk-white palfrey forth he paced; His cap of maintenance was graced With the proud heron-plume; From his steed's shoulder, loin, and breast Silk housings swept the ground, With Scotland's arms, device, and crest Embroider'd round and round. The double treasure might you see, First by Achaius borne, The thistle and the fleur-de-lis, And gallant unicorn. So bright the king's armorial coat, That scarce the dazzled eye could note; In living colours, blazon'd brave, The lion, which his title gave. A train which well beseem'd his state, But all unarm'd, around him wait; Still is thy name in high account, And still thy verse has charms, Sir David Lyndsay of the Mount, Lord Lion King-at-Arms.'

Soon after this appointment, Lyndsay wrote 'The Complaint of the King'sPapingo,' in which, through the mouth of a dying parrot, he gives somesharp counsel to the king, his courtiers and nobles, and administerssevere satirical chastisement to the corruptions of the clergy. It is anexceedingly clever production, and has some beautiful poetry as well asstinging sarcasm. Take the following address to Edinburgh, Stirling,Linlithgow, and Falkland:--

Adieu, Edinburgh! thou high triumphant town, Within whose bounds right blitheful have I been; Of true merchandis, the rule of this region, Most ready to receive court, king, and queen; Thy policy and justice may be seen; Were devotion, wisdom, and honesty, And credence tint, they micht be found in thee.

Adieu, fair Snawdoun! [Stirling] with thy towers hie, Thy chapel-royal, park, and table round; May, June, and July would I dwell in thee, Were I a man to hear the birdis sound, Which doth against the royal rock rebound. Adieu, Lithgow! whose palace of pleasance Meets not its peer in Portingale or France.

Farewell, Falkland! the forteress of Fife, Thy velvet park under the Lomond Law; Sometime in thee I led a lusty life. The fallow deer to see them raik on raw [walk in a row], Caust men to come to thee, they have great awe, &c.

In the year 1535, Lyndsay wrote his remarkable drama, 'The Satire of theThree Estates'--Monarch, namely, Barons, and Clergy. It is made up innearly three equal parts of ingenuity, wit, and grossness. It is a drama,and was acted several times--first, in 1535, at Cupar-Fife, on a largegreen mound called Moot-hill; then, in 1539, in an open park nearLinlithgow, by the express desire of the king, who with all the ladiesof the Court attended the representation; then in the amphitheatre ofSt Johnston in Perth; and in 1554, at Edinburgh, in the village ofGreenside, which skirted the northern base of the Calton Hill, in thepresence of the Queen Regent and an enormous concourse of spectators.Its exhibition appears to have occupied nearly the whole day. In the'Pictorial History of Scotland,' chapter xxiv., our readers will find afull and able analysis with extracts of this extraordinary performance.It is said to have done much good in opening the eyes of the people tothe evils of the Papacy, and in paving the way for the Reformation.

In 1536 Sir David, in company with Sir John Campbell of Lundie, was sentto the Court of France to demand in marriage for James V. a daughter ofthe House of Vendome; but the King chose rather to take the matter inhis own hands, and, going over in person, wedded Magdalene, daughter ofFrancis. She died two months after her arrival in Scotland, universallyregretted; and Lyndsay made the sad event the subject of a poem,entitled 'Deploration of the Death of Queen Magdalene,' whom hedesignates

'The flower of France, and comfort of Scotland.'

When James subsequently married Mary of Guise, Sir David's ingenuity wasstrained to the utmost in providing pageants, masques, and shows towelcome her Majesty. For forty days in St Andrews, festivities continued;and it was during this prolonged festival that the Lion King, as if sickand satiated with vanities, wrote two poems, one entitled 'The Justingbetween James Watson and John Barbour,' a dull satire on tournaments, &c.,and the other a somewhat cleverer piece, entitled 'Supplication directedto the King's Grace in Contemptioun of Side Tails,' the long trains thenworn by the ladies. It met, we presume,with the fate of _Punch's_ sarcasmsagainst crinoline,--the 'phylacteries' would for a season, instead ofbeing lessened, be enlarged, till Fashion lifted up her omnipotent rod,and told it to be otherwise.

King James died prematurely on the 14th of December 1542, and Lyndsayclosed his eyes at Falkland, and mourned for him as a brother. From thatday forth he probably felt that there was 'less sunshine in the sky forhim.' In the troublous times which succeeded this, he had to retire fora season from the Court, having become obnoxious to the rigid Papists onaccount of his writings. After the death of Cardinal Beatoun he wrotethe tragedy of 'The Cardinal,' a poem in which the spectre of theCardinal is the spokesman, and which teems with good advice to all andsundry. The execution, however, is not so felicitous as the plan. In1548 Lyndsay went to Denmark to negotiate a free trade with Scotland. Onhis return in 1550 he wrote his very pleasing and chivalric 'History ofSquire Meldrum,' founded on the actual adventures of William Meldrum,the Laird of Cleish and Binns, a distinguished friend of the poet, whohad gained laurels as a warrior both in Scotland and in France. Thispoem is, in a measure, an anticipation of the rhymed romances of Scott,and is full of picturesque description and spirit-stirring adventure. In1553 he completed his last and most elaborate work, which had occupiedhim for years, entitled 'The Monarchic,' containing an account of themost famous monarchies which have existed on earth, and carrying on thehistory to the general judgment. From this date we almost entirely losesight of our poet. He seems to have retired into private life, and issupposed to have died about the close of 1557. He was probably buried inthe family vault at Ceres, but no stone marks the spot. Dying withoutissue, his estates passed to his brother Alexander, and were continuedin the possession of his descendants till the middle of last century.They now belong to the Hopes of Rankeillour. The office of Lord Lion washeld by two of the poet's relatives successively--Sir David, hisnephew, who became Lion King in 1591, and his son-in-law, Sir JeromeLyndsay, who succeeded to it in 1621.

Sir David Lyndsay, unlike most satirists, was a good, a blameless, and areligious man. The occasional loftiness of his poetic vein, the breadthof his humour, the purity of his purpose, and his strong reforming zealcombined to make his poetry exceedingly popular in Scotland for a numberof ages, particularly among the lower orders. Scott introduces AndrewFairservice, in 'Rob Roy,' saying, in reference to Francis Osbaldistone'spoetical efforts, 'Gude help him! twa lines o' Davie Lyndsay wad ding a'he ever clerkit,' and even still there are districts of the country wherehis name is a household word.

MELDRUM'S DUEL WITH THE ENGLISH CHAMPION TALBART.

Then clarions and trumpets blew,And warriors many hither drew;On every side came many manTo behold who the battle wan.The field was in the meadow green,Where every man might well be seen:The heralds put them so in order,That no man pass'd within the border,Nor press'd to come within the green,But heralds and the champions keen;The order and the circumstanceWere long to put in remembrance.When these two noble men of weirWere well accoutred in their geir,And in their handis strong burdouns,[1]Then trumpets blew and clariouns,And heralds cried high on height,'Now let them go--God show the right.'

* * * * *

Then trumpets blew triumphantly,And these two champions eagerly,They spurr'd their horse with spear on breast,Pertly[2] to prove their pith they press'd.That round rink-room[3] was at utterance,But Talbart's horse with a mischanceHe outterit,[4] and to run was loth;Whereof Talbart was wonder wroth.The Squier forth his rink[5] he ran,Commended well with every man,And him discharged of his spearHonestly, like a man of weir.

* * * * *

The trenchour[6] of the Squier's spearStuck still into Sir Talbart's geir;Then every man into that stead[7]Did all believe that he was dead.The Squier leap'd right hastilyFrom his courser deliverly,[8]And to Sir Talbart made support,And humillie[9] did him comfort.When Talbart saw into his shieldAn otter in a silver field,'This race,' said he, 'I sore may rue,For I see well my dream was true;Methought yon otter gart[10] me bleed,And bore me backward from my steed;But here I vow to God soverain,That I shall never joust again.'And sweetly to the Squier said,'Thou know'st the cunning[11] that we made,Which of us two should tyne[12] the field,He should both horse and armour yieldTo him that won, wherefore I willMy horse and harness give thee till.'Then said the Squier, courteously,'Brother, I thank you heartfully;Of you, forsooth, nothing I crave,For I have gotten that I would have.'

Sovereign, I mene[2] of these side tails,Whilk through the dust and dubb�s trails,Three quarters lang behind their heels,Express against all commonweals.Though bishops, in their pontificals,Have men for to bear up their tails,For dignity of their office;Right so a queen or an emprice;Howbeit they use such gravity,Conforming to their majesty,Though their robe-royals be upborne,I think it is a very scorn,That every lady of the landShould have her tail so side trailand;Howbeit they be of high estate,The queen they should not counterfeit.

Wherever they go it may be seenHow kirk and causey they sweep clean.The images into the kirkMay think of their side tail�s irk;[3]For when the weather be most fair,The dust flies highest into the air,And all their faces does begary,If they could speak, they would them wary. * *But I have most into despitePoor claggocks[4] clad in raploch[5] white,Whilk has scant two merks for their fees,Will have two ells beneath their knees.Kittock that cleckit[6] was yestreen,The morn will counterfeit the queen. * *In barn nor byre she will not bide,Without her kirtle tail be side.In burghs, wanton burgess wivesWho may have sidest tail�s strives,Well bordered with velvet fine,But following them it is a pine:In summer, when the street�s dries,They raise the dust above the skies;None may go near them at their ease,Without they cover mouth and neese. * *I think most pain after a rain,To see them tucked up again;Then when they step forth through the street,Their faldings flaps about their feet;They waste more cloth, within few years,Nor would cleid[7] fifty score of freirs. * *Of tails I will no more indite,For dread some duddron[8] me despite:Notwithstanding, I will conclude,That of side tails can come no good,Sider nor[9] may their ankles hide,The remanent proceeds of pride,And pride proceedis of the devil;Thus alway they proceed of evil.

Another fault, Sir, may be seen,They hide their face all but the een;When gentlemen bid them good-day,Without reverence they slide away. * *Without their faults be soon amended,My flyting,[10] Sir, shall never be ended;But would your grace my counsel take,A proclamation ye should make,Both through the land and burrowstowns,To show their face and cut their gowns.Women will say, This is no bourds,[11]To write such vile and filthy words;But would they cleanse their filthy tails,Whilk over the mires and middings[12] trails,Then should my writing cleansed be,None other' mends they get of me.

Quoth Lyndsay, in contempt of the side tails,That duddrons[13] and duntibours[14] through the dubb�s trails.

Of Tusser we know only that he was horn in the year 1523, was welleducated, commenced life as a courtier under the patronage of LordPaget, but became a farmer, pursuing agriculture at Ratwood in Sussex,Ipswich, Fairsted in Essex, Norwich, and other places; that he was notsuccessful, and had to betake himself to other occupations, such asthose of a chorister, fiddler, &c.; and that, finally, he died a poorman in London in the year 1580. Tusser has left only one work, publishedin 1557, entitled 'A Hundred Good Points of Husbandrie,' written insimple but sometimes strong verse. It is our first, and not our worstdidactic poem.

DIRECTIONS FOR CULTIVATING A HOP-GARDEN.

Whom fancy persuadeth, among other crops,To have for his spending sufficient of hops,Must willingly follow, of choices to choose,Such lessons approved as skilful do use.

Ground gravelly, sandy, and mixed with clay,Is naughty for hops, any manner of way.Or if it be mingled with rubbish and stone,For dryness and barrenness let it alone.

Choose soil for the hop of the rottenest mould,Well dunged and wrought, as a garden-plot should;Not far from the water, but not overflown,This lesson, well noted, is meet to be known.

The sun in the south, or else southly and west,Is joy to the hop, as a welcomed guest;But wind in the north, or else northerly east,To the hop is as ill as a fray in a feast.

Meet plot for a hop-yard once found as is told,Make thereof account, as of jewel of gold;Now dig it, and leave it, the sun for to burn,And afterwards fence it, to serve for that turn.

The hop for his profit I thus do exalt,It strengtheneth drink, and it favoureth malt;And being well brew'd, long kept it will last,And drawing abide--if ye draw not too fast.

HOUSEWIFELY PHYSIC.

Good housewife provides, ere a sickness do come,Of sundry good things in her house to have some.Good _aqua composita_, and vinegar tart,Rose-water, and treacle, to comfort thine heart.Cold herbs in her garden, for agues that burn,That over-strong heat to good temper may turn.White endive, and succory, with spinach enow;All such with good pot-herbs, should follow the plough.Get water of fumitory, liver to cool,And others the like, or else lie like a fool.Conserves of barbary, quinces, and such,With sirops, that easeth the sickly so much.Ask _Medicus'_ counsel, ere medicine ye take,And honour that man for necessity's sake.Though thousands hate physic, because of the cost,Yet thousands it helpeth, that else should be lost.Good broth, and good keeping, do much now and than:Good diet, with wisdom, best comforteth man.In health, to be stirring shall profit thee best;In sickness, hate trouble; seek quiet and rest.Remember thy soul; let no fancy prevail;Make ready to God-ward; let faith never quail:The sooner thyself thou submittest to God,The sooner he ceaseth to scourge with his rod.

MORAL REFLECTIONS ON THE WIND.

Though winds do rage, as winds were wood,[1]And cause spring-tides to raise great flood;And lofty ships leave anchor in mud,Bereaving many of life and of blood:Yet, true it is, as cow chews cud,And trees, at spring, doth yield forth bud,Except wind stands as never it stood,It is an ill wind turns none to good.

[1] 'Wood:' mad.

VAUX, EDWARDS, &c.

In Tottell's 'Miscellany,' the first of the sort in the English language,published in 1557, although the names of many of the authors are notgiven, the following writers are understood to have contributed:--SirFrancis Bryan, a friend of Wyatt's, one of the principal ornaments of theCourt of Henry VIII., and who died, in 1548, Chief Justiciary of Ireland;George Boleyn, Earl of Rochford, the amiable brother of the famous AnneBoleyn, and who fell a victim to the insane jealousy of Henry, beingbeheaded in 1536; and Lord Thomas Vaux, son of Nicholas Vaux, who diedin the latter end of Queen Mary's reign. In the same Miscellany is found'Phillide and Harpalus,' the 'first true pastoral,' says Warton, 'in theEnglish language,' (see 'Specimens.') To it are annexed, too, acollection of 'Songes, written by N. G.,' which means Nicholas Grimoald,an Oxford man, renowned for his rhetorical lectures in Christ Church,and for being, after Surrey, our first writer of blank verse, in themodulation of which he excelled even Surrey. Henry himself, who was anexpert musician, is said also to have composed a book of sonnets and onemadrigal in praise of Anne Boleyn. In the same reign occur the names ofBorde, Bale, Bryan, Annesley, John Rastell, Wilfred Holme, and CharlesBansley, all writers of minor and forgotten poems. John Heywood, calledthe Epigrammatist, was of a somewhat higher order. He was the favouriteof Sir Thomas More and the pensioner of Henry VIII. He gained favourpartly through his conversational humour, and partly through his writings.He is the author of various comedies; of six hundred epigrams, most ofthem very poor; of a dialogue, in verse, containing all the proverbs thenafloat in the language; of an apologue, entitled 'The Spider and the Fly,'&c. Heywood, who was a rigid Papist, left the kingdom after the deceaseof Queen Mary, and died at Mechlin, in Brabant, in 1565. Warton haspreserved some specimens of Sir Thomas More's poetry, which do not addmuch to our conception of his genius. In 1542, one Robert Vaughan wrotean alliterative poem, entitled 'The Falcon and the Pie.' In 1521, 'TheNot-browne Maid,' (given by us in 'Percy's Reliques,') appeared in acurious collection, called 'Arnolde's Chronicle, or Customs of London.'In the same year Wynkyn de Worde printed a set of 'Christmas Carols,' andin 1529 'A Treatise of Merlin, or his Prophecies in Verse.' In Henry'sdays, too, there commences the long line of translators of the Psalmsinto English metre, commencing with Thomas Sternhold, groom of the robesto the King, who versified fifty-one psalms, which were published in 1549,and with John Hopkins, a clergyman and schoolmaster in Suffolk, who addedfifty-eight more, and progressing with Whyttingham, Thomas Norton, (thejoint author, along with Lord Buckhurst, of the curious old tragedy of'Gorboduc,') Robert Wisdome, William Hunnis, William Baldwyn, Parker, thescholarly and celebrated Archbishop of Canterbury, &c. &c. Parker trans-lated all the Psalms himself; and John Day published in 1562, and attachedto the Book of Common Prayer, the whole of Sternhold and Hopkins' 'Psalms,with apt notes to sing them withall.' In Edward's reign appeared a verydifferent strain--the first drinking-song of merit in the language, 'Backand sides go bare'--(see 'Specimens,' vol. 2.) This song occurs at theopening of the second act of 'Gammer Gurton's Needle,' a comedy written(by a 'Mr S.') and printed in 1551, and afterwards acted at Christ'sCollege in Cambridge.

In the reign of Mary, flourished Richard Edwards, a man of no smallversatility of genius. He was a native of Somersetshire, was born about1523, and died in 1566. He wrote two comedies, one entitled 'Damon andPythias,' and the other 'Palamon and Arcit�,' both of which were actedbefore Queen Elizabeth. He also contrived masques and wrote verses forpageants, and is said to have been the first fiddler, the most elegantsonnetteer, and the most amusing mimic of the Court. He is the author ofa pleasing poem, entitled 'Amantium irae,' and of some lines under thetitle, 'He requesteth some friendly comfort, affirming his constancy.'We quote a few of them:--

'The mountains nigh, whose lofty tops do meet the haughty sky, The craggy rock, that to the sea free passage doth deny, The aged oak, that doth resist the force of blust'ring blast, The pleasant herb, that everywhere a pleasant smell doth cast, The lion's force, whose courage stout declares a prince-like might, The eagle, that for worthiness is borne of kings in fight-- Then these, I say, and thousands more, by tract of time decay, And, like to time, do quite consume and fade from form to clay; But my true heart and service vow'd shall last time out of mind, And still remain, as thine by doom, as Cupid hath assign'd.'

Edwards also contributed some beautiful things to the well-known oldcollection, 'The Paradise of Dainty Devices.'

GEORGE GASCOIGNE.

Gascoigne was born in 1540, in Essex, of an ancient family. He waseducated at Cambridge, and entered at Gray's Inn, but was disinheritedby his father for extravagance, and betook himself to Holland, wherehe obtained a commission from the Prince of Orange. After variousvicissitudes of fortune, being at one time taken prisoner by theSpaniards, and at another receiving a reward from the Prince of threehundred guilders above his pay for his brave conduct at the siege ofMiddleburg, he returned to England. In 1575, he accompanied QueenElizabeth in one of her progresses, and wrote for her a mask, entitled'The Princely Pleasures of Kenilworth.' He is said to have died atStamford in 1578. He is the author of two or three translated dramas,such as 'The Supposes,' a comedy from Ariosto, and 'Jocasta,' a tragedyfrom Euripides, besides some graceful and lively minor pieces, one ortwo of which we append.

GOOD-MORROW.

You that have spent the silent night In sleep and quiet rest,And joy to see the cheerful light That riseth in the east;Now clear your voice, now cheer your heart, Come help me now to sing:Each willing wight come, bear a part, To praise the heavenly King.

And you whom care in prison keeps, Or sickness doth suppress,Or secret sorrow breaks your sleeps, Or dolours do distress;Yet bear a part in doleful wise, Yea, think it good accord,And acceptable sacrifice, Each sprite to praise the Lord.

The dreadful night with darksomeness Had overspread the light;And sluggish sleep with drowsiness Had overpress'd our might:A glass wherein you may behold Each storm that stops our breath,Our bed the grave, our clothes like mould, And sleep like dreadful death.

Yet as this deadly night did last But for a little space,And heavenly day, now night is past, Doth show his pleasant face:So must we hope to see God's face, At last in heaven on high,When we have changed this mortal place For immortality.